Tuesday, July 5, 2011

wet puppy

Holy Toledo, it's freakin' Florida out there and I'm talking 96 degrees.  I am the only customer in the Indian restaurant and I think their air conditioner died.  There is a fan on the floor pointed away from me and I would rather have hot air blowing on me than no air at all.  My glass of Diet Coke arrives with a few wimpy ice cubes which will be gone by the second swig. And here is my palak dosa and I arrange the three bowls of seasoned sauce like the chef showed me - gingery spicy, buttermilk creamy and something brown and watery with green stuff floating in it.  I tear off a chunk of spinach crepe and dip three times, three bowls.  Ya gotta love a culture that eats with their fingers.

Yesterday was my first grandchild's twelfth birthday.  Twelve years ago his uncle and I braved the hospital waiting room chairs scrunched up and trying to sleep hoping the door would open and the smiling nurse would bring the good news.  Doctor said midnight.  Midnight came and went.  Doctor said 2 a.m.  Came and went.  Doctor said 4 a.m., you get the idea.  Ethan Randall was born at noon, I could have told that doctor my daughter was not the punctual type.  Finally, we are allowed in her room and everyone huddles around the baby, a howling little wet puppy.  I check on my baby, my Carrie, and she is exhausted, barely able to talk or move her head. 

Yeah, they really don't give you the whole story in those Lamaze classes.  It was my turn to view that precious kid and I say to his father, "he looks just like Joe (my ex-husband.)"  I know, Joel rolls his eyes.  The one person that will spend the least amount of time with the child and that's who he resembles.  Kids, if you forget everything else I tell you, remember this, the world is not a fair place.
Happy birthday, my sweet boy. Could you slow down this growing -up process a bit?

No comments: